


Something You Can't Stand to Lose

by vacantstars



Series: The Long Way Home [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Arishok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7940911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantstars/pseuds/vacantstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Not just my friend,” he corrects before he can stop himself, and</i> oh.</p><p>
  <i>So much for waiting for a better time to tell her.</i>
</p><p>In which Anders finally tells Marian about Karl, but his timing leaves much to be desired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something You Can't Stand to Lose

He feels as though he hasn’t breathed since Hawke collapsed after the duel with the Arishok.

It was probably only through a combination of stubbornness and sheer force of will that she was still standing at all after that, let alone on her feet long enough for Meredith to come in and name her Kirkwall’s Champion. Hawke then looked at him and flashed a bloody grin, took three steps forward, and fainted. Anders felt himself let out a strangled cry and move towards her before he’d even processed what was going on, but Aveline was faster and caught her before she hit the ground.

They’d made it back to her ( _their_ , his mind lazily corrects; he hasn’t finished fully moving in yet, but he _does_ technically live there now— a fact that he still has a hard time believing) estate and he’d poured every bit of magic he had left and then some into her broken body. That beast had done a number on her: a cracked skull, shattered ribs, heavy internal bleeding accompanying a large stab wound…

Hawke is no spirit healer, but he suspects that the basic healing spell he’d seen her cast on herself several times in the midst of the fight is what kept her alive. She’d really only managed to heal superficial damage and stop herself from bleeding out on the floor of the Viscount’s Keep, however, and Anders decides that he’s going to teach her better healing spells once they’re both up to it.

He’s honestly not sure if days or weeks or months have passed since the duel, but it feels as though it’s been a lifetime. The chair he’s been sitting in since Aveline carried Hawke into her (their) bedroom is starting to dig into his back, and he hasn’t slept since before the Qunari attacked the city. He _should_ let himself rest— Maker knows how much he needs it— but he can’t; not with Hawke in a condition that could barely be considered stable. Her breathing might not be as shallow as it was, but she’s still far too pale and cold; and with barely any mana left after spending hours trying to stop a Qunari invasion, he hadn’t been able to heal any of her non-life-threatening injuries.

Besides, every time he closes his eyes— even if only for a moment— he sees Hawke coughing up her own blood and holding the hilt of the broadsword protruding from her gut, and it’s reminding him of his own knife being plunged into—

_No_. He can’t think about that now.

* * *

_“You do realize that libraries are for studying, don’t you?” Karl asks between kisses, but considering that he still has Anders pinned against the wall, he doesn’t show any indication of stopping. “Not illicit love affairs.”_

_“I always did say the library was the most fun part of this blasted place,” Anders says playfully, looping his arms around the other man’s neck. “Though I_ could _make a pretty convincing argument for the supply closet on the third floor.”_

_Karl snorts at that, and kisses him briefly again. “And the stockroom closet?”_

_“Oh, yes. Definitely there, too.”_

_He’s been at Kinloch for the past eight years and has spent seven and a half of them plotting multiple escape attempts, but right now, the only thing that matters is Karl’s mouth on his._

_But Karl suddenly pulls away from him, and Anders lets out a whine of protest and tries to tug him back._

_“I thought I heard someone,” Karl hisses._

_“Since when have the templars ever checked behind the bookcase in the magical theory section of the library for horny mages?” Anders asks, but Karl puts his hand over his mouth. Despite his protests, he’s well aware of what would happen if they get caught, and that fear is ever-present in the back of his mind; but Maker help him, he just wants to get back to kissing._

_Whatever Karl heard apparently passes, and he lets out a sigh of relief. “I think…I think we’re good.”_

_“Oh, I’m_ very _good.” Anders raises his eyebrows suggestively and playfully grinds his hips against Karl’s for emphasis._

_“Stop that,” Karl groans._

_“Make me.”_

_The other mage kisses him thoroughly, effectively silencing any other snarky remark he might’ve had._

* * *

“Messere Anders?” Orana’s timid voice from the doorway is enough to startle him out of his thoughts, and she ducks her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I— I brought you water.”

“No harm done, Orana.” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. Maker, his nerves are completely shot. “Thank you.”

Orana places the pitcher of water and glasses on the nightstand next to him and looks at Hawke, worry clearly written all over his face. She’d looked as though she was about to burst into tears when Aveline all but kicked down the door and came in with a barely alive Hawke in her arms, and he couldn’t exactly blame her for it.

“Is she…better?”

“Not…completely,” he says carefully. “But she will be.”

He can’t quite tell if Orana is satisfied by that answer, but she chews her lip for a moment and then turns to him. “You should rest, Messere Anders. I can watch over her and get you if she needs something.”

“I…that’s all right, Orana.” Anders knows that she’s right and he’s completely exhausted, but he can’t tear himself away from Hawke’s side. “I appreciate the concern, but I can manage.”

Normally, when he fails to take care of himself and says that everything’s fine, she either tries to insist that he do something or gives him sad looks until he does it, but she must know not to argue with him now. Orana gives a quick curtsy and sees herself out after telling him to get her if he needs anything. Maybe she’ll sic Bodahn on him later, but for now, he’s free to carry on not sleeping and worrying himself sick.

They’d almost lost Hawke. _He’d_ almost lost Hawke, and he was at such a loss that he’d prayed for the first time since solitary that she would pull through. Anders had once told her that it would kill him to lose her, and he hadn’t been just being hyperbolic. He’d already grieved for Karl, made himself sick with guilt for not being faster and not being able to save him, and tried to pick up the broken pieces of his heart.

He can’t do that again.

* * *

_“Shouldn’t you be plotting escape attempt— what, fifteen?” Karl asks, strolling into Anders’ chambers and sitting on the edge of his bed, where the man is sprawled out and reading from a dusty book he’d found in the library._

_“Eight,” Anders corrects, without bothering to look up from his book. “Maybe I have better things to be doing than having my head kicked in by templars. Why?”_

_“It’s been a while.” Karl shrugs and pulls his book away._

_He’s sure that Karl— along with the rest of the Circle— has noticed that he’s stayed put since they entered into a relationship. With Karl at his side, freedom suddenly didn’t seem as important. If being with someone he actually likes (loves? He still isn’t completely positive about that, but the concept of it is both thrilling and terrifying) means continuing to be locked away, well…it’s a sacrifice that he’s willing to make._

_“Rude.” Anders pouts and attempts to reach for his book, but Karl keeps it just out of his reach as he skims through the pages._

_“This is the driest herbalism book I’ve ever seen,” Karl says. “I think I’m saving you, really.”_

_“I’m studying, for once.” Anders folds his arms. “Though I’m sure you didn’t come in here just to criticize my choice in literature.”_

_Karl shifts uncomfortably and puts the book aside, and that makes Anders nervous. He knows the other mage well enough by now to know that that’s never a good sign and that he should brace himself for the worst._

_“I’m being transferred,” he says after a long pause. “To Kirkwall.”_

“What?!” _Anders bolts upright. “They can’t just—”_

_“They can if the Gallows need new talent,” Karl sighs, apparently resigned to his fate._

_Anders stares at him in shock. They’d both known that one of them being transferred was an imminent possibility, but to think that it could actually happen…_

_“When?” He manages after long a moment._

_“End of the week, most likely.”_

_“And you’re all right with this?!” Anders demands, suddenly angry— though it’s more at theiroverall situation than at Karl. It isn’t Karl’s fault that the Chantry only sees them as objects to be used as it pleases, after all._

_“You know I don’t have a choice,” Karl snaps. “What I_ think _is irrelevant. Not all of us have the luxury of knowing how to escape, you know.”_

_“I…I know.” Anders deflates, feeling all of the anger drain out of him and become replaced by a sense of helplessness that he hasn’t felt since he had to listen to his mother scream and cry as he was carted off in chains. “Andraste’s ass.”_

_Karl lets out another sigh and gathers Anders into his arms, and Anders all but latches on to him and buries his face in his shoulder in an attempt to force himself not to cry. They sit in silence like that for a long while, neither one of them able to find the words necessary to articulate what they want to say._

_“Behave yourself when I’m gone,” Karl finally says, quietly pressing kiss to the top of Anders’ head. “I don’t want to hear about something terrible happening to you because I’m not around to keep you out of trouble.”_

_“I make no promises,” Anders mumbles against his shoulder, and he feels Karl smile against his hair._

* * *

At some point, night turns into day and early morning sunlight begins to stream in through the windows, but Anders hadn’t been paying much attention to the time. He’d remained in his chair at Hawke’s bedside and had been healing her to the best of his ability as soon as he felt a bit of his mana resort itself. By the time he hears birds chirping about outside (on top of all of the other noise in a city that had just been attacked by rampaging Qunari), he’s confident that Hawke’s skull is no longer cracked and her insides are fine. He, on the other hand, has never been more worn down in his entire life.

His own well-being is irrelevant at the moment, however.

He absentmindedly brushes a stray lock of hair out of Hawke’s face, and a few moments later, she begins to stir. Her bright blue eyes flutter open, and Anders almost falls out of his chair in relief.

“Marian, I— oh, thank the Maker, love,” he breathes, feeling as though a several-ton weight has been lifted off of his chest. He wants nothing more than to hold her and never let go, but there’s a very real prospect of breaking her all over again that’s stopping him from doing it.

“Anders,” she says hoarsely, and he’s never loved hearing her say his name more. He reaches for the water that Orana had brought hours ago and helps her take a drink. It’s difficult without letting her sit up, but they manage.

_“Ugh,”_ Hawke groans, gingerly poking at her ribs before Anders gently swats her hands away.

“Stop that, you’re not fully healed yet,” he scolds mildly, and Hawke lets out another groan.

“Please tell me I didn’t really duel the Arishok and I was just..I don’t know, having fun throwing myself off a cliff, or something.”

“I could, but I would be lying.” His hands begin to glow blue with healing magic again, and he settles them over Hawke’s ribs. She’s still in obvious pain, so his exhaustion can wait for another few moments. “You did it to save Isabela— who’s fine, before you ask.”

“Well, I think that effectively settles any Wicked Grace debt between us.”

“Hawke, this isn’t a joke!” He snaps, far more angrily than he’d intended. “You almost…You could’ve…”

_The Arishok’s blade goes clean through her and she lets out a cry of pain—_

The feeling of Hawke’s hand on one of his pull him out of his memory, and looks down to see Hawke peering back at him. He hadn’t even realized that his hands are shaking, but it makes her grip tighten. 

“I’m here,” she says gently, bringing her free hand up to cup the side of his face. “You can’t be rid of me that easily.”

He all but melts into her touch as fights back the tears that are suddenly threatening to spill. This is all wrong; _he_ should be the one comforting _her,_ because he isn’t the one who’d nearly gotten himself killed in a selflessly heroic act to save their friend, but since when has anything about their relationship ever been conventional?

“Anders,” she says, lightly tugging at his hand. “Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” he says immediately, both out of habit and concern for her well-being. “You’re not fully healed yet and I don’t want to hurt you more.”

“Unless you plan on punching me in your sleep, you’re not going to hurt me.” Hawke pulls at him again, more insistently this time. “When was the last time you slept? I think you look worse than I do.”

“Oh, thanks for that.” He rolls his eyes, but he knows that he’s already lost this fight. With a sigh, he pulls off his boots— his coat and feathered pauldrons had already been thrown over the back of a chair in another room hours ago— and carefully slides into his side of the bed.

“Besides,” Hawke says, carefully adjusting herself so that her head is resting on his shoulder, “haven’t I told you that I might like it if you hurt me?”

Anders chokes back a startled laugh and would’ve whacked her with a pillow had he not been concerned about reopening a wound or seven. “Have I ever told you that you’re ridiculous?”

“You might’ve mentioned.” Hawke closes her eyes. “Now go to sleep.”

They aren’t holding each other in a mess of tangled limbs like they normally would have been because she still can’t move all that much and he’s still terrified of breaking her all over again, but the feeling of her head on his shoulder and warm breath on his neck is both comforting and reassuring. He’s both exhausted to the bone and wide awake, and he finds himself checking over her injuries and absentmindedly playing with her hair until he, at some point, feels his eyes start to drift shut.

* * *

_“Why couldn’t you save me, Anders?” Karl asks, pointing angrily to the Sunburst brand on his forehead. “Why weren’t you faster?”_

_“I don’t know, I…” Anders says helplessly, reaching out to him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

_“Being_ sorry _won’t bring me back,” Karl spits. “It won't change what happened.”_

_He seems to relent then, his expression softening as he walks towards Anders’ outstretched arms. They embrace with all of the familiarity of two people who loved each other once, but after a moment passes, Karl suddenly and lifelessly collapses at his feet._

_“Karl!”_

_Anders immediately drops to his knees and rolls the other man over. His knife is lodged in Karl’s stomach, and his hands come away bloody._

_ “You couldn’t save me, and you won’t be able to save her,” Karl says, and spits up blood onto the floor of the Chantry the same way Hawke had after she'd been impaled. _

Anders wakes up with a start in a cold sweat. His nightmare has left him disoriented, but the familiar weight of Hawke’s head rested on shoulder brings him back to reality. He’s not in the Chantry and Karl is long gone; he’s in bed with Hawke in her (their) bedroom in Hightown. It’s now dark outside the window, which means that they’d been sleeping for quite a while. At some point, Bodahn or Orana must’ve come in, because there’s more water in the pitcher and two plates of food on the nightstand.

Hawke begins to stir, and he curses himself for letting his tossing and turning wake her.

“Anders?” She mumbles sleepily, making a rather valiant attempt to bury her face into his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he manages shakily. “Go back to sleep.”

Hawke clearly doesn’t buy it, because she knows that tone of his too well; she’s calmed him down from too many nightmares of archdemons and templars and demons of his own not to. She peers up at him and covers one of his hands with hers.

“Warden dreams?”

“No.” He looks away, hoping that she can’t read his face in the poor light. “It’s nothing, Hawke. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re shaking, so no, it’s not _fine_.” She tries to reach over and make him look back at her, but the movement makes her wince. Anders immediately turns back to her and brings glowing hands to her ribs, but she catches his hands. “Stop that, it can wait. What happened?”

“It…was Karl,” he says with a sigh, after a long pause. “The dream, I mean. It was about Karl.”

“About…what happened at the Chantry?”

He swallows thickly. “Yes.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault, you know.” Her voice is gentle; it’s a tone that he only hears from her after he’s woken her with his panicked cries in the middle of the night or when they come across frightened, hurt children. “And he wanted you to do it, Anders. It was a mercy.”

“I…I know. But it’s not just that. It’s…”

_I’ve already lost someone I love once, and almost having it happen again is bringing it all back,_ he almost says, but stops himself before he can finish that thought. He’s never told her about the nature of his relationship with Karl, and now probably isn’t the best time to reveal that piece of information. Hawke isn’t the type of person who would treat him any differently because of it, but telling her _now_ that he’d had to mercy kill his former lover is anything but ideal.

“He was your friend,” she says. “Andraste’s tits, Anders. You have a right to be upset about it.”

“Not just my friend,” he corrects before he can stop himself, and _oh._

So much for waiting for a better time to tell her.

“We apprentices found ways to make the Circle more tolerable,” he says— rambles, really— before Hawke has a chance to say anything else. “When I told you that love was only a game there…that’s true. Karl and I…he was the first. We hadn’t been together for many years, but…it still hurt. And seeing you bleeding out on the floor of the Keep…”

“Anders,” Hawke breathes, tightening her grip on his hands. “Maker’s balls, Anders, I had no idea…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…this wasn’t the time to tell you that.” He kicks himself internally for never learning how to censor himself. Being around Hawke only seemed to make that problem worse. “I’d been meaning to, eventually, but—”

“You’re not going to lose me, Anders,” she interrupts, her voice firm. He’s always appreciated that about her; she doesn’t judge or pity him, and she never looks at him like he’s someone who needs saving. She takes his hand and places it over her heart. “I rather like being here, for one thing.”

Something in him had always known what he had with Karl wouldn’t last, whether he wanted to admit it or not. There was the templars, the possibility of bring transferred to another tower, and a whole host of other reasons why Circle mages didn’t fall in love. That’s why he’d tried to cherish every moment he had with him, which was enough to make him stay put in a place he hated with every ounce of his being. He might’ve known their relationship was doomed to end tragically, but he never would’ve suspected just how tragically it actually happened.

But Hawke…Hawke is different. He’d spent three years simultaneously longing for her and pushing her away, terrified of dragging her down with him and protecting his own heart after what happened at the Chantry on that damned night. And then, just as he finally allowed himself to be selfish again and love her the way he wanted to, he’d almost lost her to her own chronic heroism.

Maybe he’s cursed. The evidence would certainly seem to support that theory.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, watching that brute run you through…” Anders closes his eyes and tries to will himself to concentrate on her heartbeat to keep himself grounded. “If Aveline hadn’t been holding my arm so tightly I thought she was going to rip it off and beat me with it if I interfered…”

“I’m…well, I’m not fine,” Hawke says, rubbing small circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. “But I will be.”

“I know.” And he _does_ know, because that’s who she is. Hawke is a force of nature, and she’ll be back to trekking up the Wounded Coast and talking on the responsibilities of an entire city in no time, near-death experiences be damned. 

But at the end of the day, she’ll come home again and they’ll safe in each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry I put you through that again.” She stops her ministrations. “For what it’s worth, had I known that things would go _that_ poorly, I would’ve challenged the Arishok to a riveting game of chess instead.”

He snorts at that, albeit shakily, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Her jokes are more for his benefit than hers, and while they might be off-color, he appreciates what she’s trying to do.

“The dashing Champion of Kirkwall defeats the Arishok in a game of chess,” he muses. “How very romantic.”

“Oh, right. I’m the _Champion_ now, aren’t I?” How she remembered that— or anything from the duel, really— after losing as much blood as she had is beyond him, but Hawke never ceases to amaze him. “An apostate Fereldan refugee as Kirkwall’s Champion. I’m sure Meredith is seething in rage at the irony.”

“She’s always seething in rage,” Anders points out mildly. “But you do have a talent for angering people, admittedly.”

“It’s a hobby,” Hawke says sleepily, settling herself back against him as carefully as she can and closes her eyes. “So I’m lucky to have my favorite rebel mage around whenever someone tries to stab me as a result.”

_And I’m lucky to have you still here with me,_ he wants to tell her. _I’m lucky to have someone to listen to me pour my heart out while she’s laying in bed after nearly getting herself killed saving a city that doesn’t deserve her. I’m lucky to have someone who, despite everything, believes in me._

He doesn’t say any of that, however, because Hawke’s drifted off again. That’s all right, though, because he can just tell her when she wakes up. She’ll still be there with him in the morning, and for as many mornings as their lives will allow them.

“I love you,” is what he says into the stillness and quiet of their bedroom instead, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he could feel Hawke smile against his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing was born out of a combination of [this post](http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/144706311675/person-a-the-more-stoicserious-of-the-two) and my own annoyance over Anders never telling f!Hawke about Karl (seriously, it makes no sense)-- on screen, anyway. So here's my angst-laden attempt at how that conversation went down.
> 
> As always, I'm pretty sure this got away from me at some point.


End file.
